four thousand, two hundred and ninety three (and counting)
by MischiefNotQuiteManaged
Summary: "You will never be able to amend what you did. But you can certainly try." A story of Sirius Black's imprisonment in Azkaban - all four thousand, two hundred and ninety two days of it.


_**four thousand, two hundred and ninety three (and counting)**_

Do you even remember what daylight looks like?

Of course you don't. It's been too long. The only thing brave enough to suppress the force of the dark is the spear of light shooting through the hole in the wall next to you. It's artificial, of course – your cell stands off the high-security corridor, lit only by charmed Muggle light bulbs. Occasionally, it blinks, and you wonder whether they'll replace it when the charms wear off and it finally dies. Only to avoid stepping in the dead rats as they patrol every few hours, mind - they certainly wouldn't do it out of care for _your_ wellbeing. They hate you.

And the feeling is mutual.

Raising your head, you can't tell whether it is day or night - in the beginning, you could guess from which guard it was that patrolled past your door, but ever since they changed the patrol schedule you haven't got a clue. The frigid light beats the clammy stone in just the same way no matter what the time. All you know is that the guards patrol three times a day – every third patrol means the passing of another day you'll never see.

There is nothing to do or think about here. Of course, it was hardly supposed to be fun, but you just can't comprehend how any place can be quite so... _dead_. Because, if you think about it – and it's hardly as if you haven't had the time to – that's what this place is. You never see anything other than the ash-grey brickwork of your cell. You never hear anything that doesn't come from a rat. Apart from the fact that you know this place – especially your corridor – is guarded round the clock, you could easily believe you were alone. The building is stagnant, lifeless – completely and utterly vapid.

And so, as you have nothing better to do – not even anything _worse_ to do – you count.

 _eight hundred and seventy five (and counting)_

~oOo~

You awake sharply from your dream, panting shallowly as the fetid odour of your surroundings reminds you of where you dwell. Sleep – and the dreams that sometimes followed – used to provide some small respite from your misery.

But then they took those as well.

So now you waste your days fighting the demon of unconsciousness, pinching yourself to throw spears of pain at your mind. You draw blood sometimes. The ones that leave scars are becoming increasingly often, too.

But sometimes, when you become too weak to hold your defences any longer, you lose the battle, and your mind slips away from you. Away from this place, you become able to think, to process and analyze. And that's what scares you the most. Because when you have time to examine what happened, you realise quite how _stupid_ you were, how blinded by your own ridiculous loyalty you were not to notice it. This is the only time the grief and misery subside; instead every inch of you is flooded with guilt and loathing – not just for him, but for you as well. If you had known, if you had opened your eyes and _looked_ , for once –

Sighing, you pick up a jagged fragment of stone and hurl it across all three metres of your cell. This thought has angered you almost every day recently, and you vow, for what seems the thousandth time (and it could well be) that you will not leave this world without at least attempting to rectify your mistake. But for now, the thought remains unfinished. You can only think without them near; slowly, though, your thoughts are linking together, conjoining into an ever-building hurricane of your rage and revenge. As the winds pick up, you pry your eyelids open again. If you sleep, you fear you might give in to the madness that threatens you, its presence ever-looming like the shadows in your cell.

Instead, you count.

 _one thousand, five hundred and seventy one (and counting)_

~oOo~

Today you managed to get a glance at a guard's newspaper. The date printed in the corner – which you didn't spot at first, so jumbled is the _Prophet_ in its organisation – seemed like it held some importance to you for some reason, but it has only just occurred to you why.

His first day at Hogwarts. And you've missed it.

Now, not only have you failed your friends in life, you have failed them in death too. It was your job, should anything happen, to look after him, ensure his safety and his happiness. But your stupidity and rashness means that you spend your years envisioning the faces of your friends at the door of your cell, twisted in disgust as they look down on the pathetic man that couldn't tell a lie from truth if it was six inches in front of him – literally. You are weak, and broken.

You failed.

Since you came to this conclusion – one so obvious you know you've only been avoiding it before now – the ugly thoughts inside your head have started howling and snapping at every corner of your consciousness. You have a job to do now. Not only do you need to put right your failures as best you can, you need to prove – both to your friends and to yourself – that you can get it right the first time. Revenge must be sought now, not just for you, but for the young boy that must have suffered, whatever has happened to him since, as a result of your inadequacy. This is no longer about your own selfish need for vengeance. This is for is for him. You might have failed before, but now, with a determined, rage-fuelled flame burning where your heart used to be, you are compelled to begin plotting your victory – however hollow it may be once you achieve it.

Whilst you consider outcomes and possibilities, whilst you hear the endless sheets of pounding, icy rain mix with the screams of the wind outside, you count.

 _three thousand, five hundred and ninety three (and counting)_

~oOo~

Weren't criminals supposed to be emotionless?

From your days as a budding Auror, you still remember how all your superiors described killers and psychopaths – cold and unrepenting, their faces carved from the same stone as their hearts.

So why do you feel so... _angry?_

Sure, you're not actually a killer, but you are as good as one. Not only did you bring about the deaths of two people you loved dearly, you have spent those brief interludes where you are unconscious – and much of the time when you think you are not – planning the murder of a third. You're nearly there, too – which is good, because if you couldn't act soon you're not sure your sanity (whatever dregs if it remain) would be drowning in the madness in your mind. For now, though, you occupy yourself with the final part of your plan – ironically, the beginning.

You know what your end goal is. You know how to track, to pursue –

Pulling your fists over your hair, you draw in a deep, shuddering breath. Since this morning – what you assume must have been morning, at least – you have been even more on edge than usual. As you lean forward and grab the dirty paper again, you feel the determination and rage course over you like boiling water.

Now you know where he is. Now, at last, you truly believe it can be done.

Clutching the paper like a lifeline – screw that, it _is_ your lifeline – you push yourself into the corner of your cell; the cold stone against your temple makes your thoughts clearer. All that remains for you to work out is how you can initiate the sequence if events that might finally allow some of your demons to leave you.

Are they forgiving? You hope so, but judging by the fact that they still rip your eyes open during sleep and punch you in the gut just for the hell of it, just to remind you that no matter what you think, _they_ still believe you a murderer. To be honest, you've never really talked to them, have you? You figure you already hate yourself enough for what you did that you don't need to waste time thinking about how much they must do as well.

The paper drops to the floor. You can't think about the photograph spread across its front page now – if you do, you'll never be able to think. You have the plans; all that remains it to work out how to begin them.

You plot. You count.

 _four thousand, two hundred and eighty nine (and counting)_

~oOo~

People are so stupid sometimes, aren't they?

You don't know what they were thinking when they changed all the patrols in your wing. It used to be that one of the three was done by a human guard, but you suppose they couldn't find the people to do it anymore. All the psychopaths are already inmates. Still – guards who cannot see? It was easier than you thought.

After all those weeks – months – _years_ – all it took was a moment of temporary recklessness (or was it insanity?) to finally do it. You wonder how long it will take for them to notice. Not long, you think – so you cannot linger.

If anyone ever knew that you had spent your incarceration counting, they would probably assume it was how long you'd spent in that fetid cell. They'd also assume that that meant you could stop now. If that was what you were counting, though, you'd have been one day off.

Though you doubt anyone else knows – not that many would probably care that much – you've felt the need to do it. One for every day since you lost everything. One for every day since the death of your brother and his wife; one for every day you have sworn you will not die leaving them unavenged. Even when you have achieved your intentions – and you know you will – you will not stop counting. No matter how hard you try, you can never pay all the debts that you owe. And you will make sure that you never forget that. You will never forget what you did.

Silently, you set off running into the night.

 _four thousand, two hundred and ninety three (and counting)_


End file.
